


A Negotiation, Of Sorts

by wrabbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-18
Updated: 2010-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unexpectedly alone in Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Negotiation, Of Sorts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow/gifts).



> chew_the_rag has translated this [into Russian](http://www.diary.ru/~sherlockbbc/p127145303.htm).

Somehow Mycroft is no less unapproachable, not even in his shirtsleeves, lounging in John's usual armchair, with the damp umbrella leaning benignly by the door. The space between them is glaring without Sherlock's electric miasma to fill it. There is an untouched cup of steaming tea at Mycroft's side and John realizes he's been staring at it when Mycroft reaches over and sips from it, eyes meeting his over the rim.

"Um. Can I get you anything else?" John says. He can't seem to stop hovering awkwardly, waiting for Sherlock to swoop in and be a distraction.

"John," Mycroft says and smiles, in a rueful way that isn't actually comforting, "please, this needn't be so uncomfortable."

John shoves his hands in his pockets to hide his clenching fingers, somewhere between embarrassed and frustrated.

"Come here." Mycroft has a way of making every order sound like the suggestion that no one would ever mistake it for being. He deliberately sets the mug down, uncrosses his legs and leans back in the chair.

Right. John walks over to stand stiffly out of arms reach, making a decision to ignore Mycroft's knowing smile. Up close, Mycroft's very expensive shirt doesn't fall so sharply, and he's filled out a little since they first met, his stomach curved instead of rumbling. John reaches out, teasing a piece of pollen from the rainy winds out of Mycroft's hair and can't help an awkward smile from surfacing.

Mycroft tips his head a little, encouraging him to keep touching, and he does, carefully. "You know you don't need my permission to touch me," Mycroft says.

"You can't know everything I'm going to do before I do," John answers automatically. His wrist is caught before he can pull away and Mycroft pulls him forward with surprising insistence, forcing him to brace his knees on either side of Mycroft's lap or fall into it.

He's warm and solid between John's thighs, and just the tiniest bit damp from the rain. John is suddenly close enough to smell coffee on his breath, and a faint hint of scented soap. He catches himself with his palms on the back of the chair before they can fall together from hips to shoulders.

"Just now you're thinking about kissing me, and my brother throwing the door open to see us here," Mycroft says when he seems less likely of overbalancing.

"Is that what you think." He rubs his thumb along the side of Mycroft's smooth shaven neck, wondering what he would do if John ever marked him there, above his collar. Thumbs dig into his hipbones, startling him.

"I wish you wouldn't," Mycroft says, half apologetic.

John sits back on his knees and studies Mycroft while Mycroft studies him, patient instead of calculating. There is already the thinnest blush of pink where John has been stroking the curve of his neck, only visible against the blinding white of his shirt, and no, any bruises would not be quick to fade. "I want to see you," John decides.

Mycroft smiles. "That can be arranged."


End file.
